


Dawn Appointment

by orphan_account



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Birdwatching, Bonding, Gen, M/M, Mostly Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-18
Updated: 2015-03-18
Packaged: 2018-03-18 09:56:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3565403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For bisexual-legislature on tumblr, who I’ve owed this fic to for a long time.</p><p>A quick little reversal of the eccentric outgoing Medic & unfriendly loner Sniper tropes. There’s more to both of them than just that, and it’s nice to picture the scenarios for what they might have in common. Like birdwatching, maybe.</p><p>- - -</p><p>Before Medic can speak again, Sniper reaches into his backpack and offers binoculars, a damaged plastic pair infused with a musky smell probably derived from koalas. “Try ‘em.’</p><p>Medic wrinkles his nose at the item in his palm. “Vhat now?”</p><p>“Take a look, doc.” And Sniper narrows his eyes at a blur in the distance. He’s farsighted -- Medic has always known this. Reluctantly, the doctor raises the binoculars to his face, above his reading glasses, and peers out at the dirt and sand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dawn Appointment

It’s the crack of dawn. Medic is never up at this hour.

He’s a late riser by habit; inclined to work well into the deep hours of night, tinkering with experiments and tweaking vials of bubbling Medigun fluid as they simmer over a Bunsen burner, he gets engrossed in his job. It can’t be helped. He’ll start to pore over a document of experiment notes or test out a new scalpel on the day’s battlefield remnants. Hours later, he will glance up at the clock, displaying the late hour as it hangs in the room’s dim corner, and sigh. Another night of sleep lost.

He has a compound to help himself stay alert in battle, though, and he habitually spikes his coffee with it, alongside cream and sugar. This lessens the severity of his insomnia, as much as anything possibly can, though it doesn’t do much for the bad mood.

Sniper, on the contrary, takes his coffee black.

By the time Medic reaches him to see the sunrise, Sniper’s already parked on the roof of the camper van, cross-legged and lanky as he nurses his coffee mug between calloused palms. Slouch hat pulled low over his forehead, studded with sharp crocodile teeth in its brim, he barely moves at the clanking sound of Medic clambering up the ladder, medipack rattling on its loose straps. His voice is low and raspy, still thick with sleep. “Ya didn’t have ta bring the gear, doc.”

“Und vhy not? I’m not going all zhe vay back to zhe base to get it.” Medic balances precariously atop the corrugated metal surface for a split second, then thinks better of it and sits immediately, unslinging the harness from his shoulders and carefully laying the precious medipack aside. Battered and beaten as the thing gets during their daily battles, it’s still covered by Respawn’s infallible policy as soon as Medic steps through the field’s gates. Outside, it’s at risk for damage, so he takes every care.

“Eh.” Sniper hacks and spits, expelling a coffee-flavored wad over the side of the van. Medic wrinkles his nose a little at the sight, but does not criticize. “Don’t want anythin’ ta happen ta it.”

“You don’t have to vorry about zhat.” Medic is positively indignant at the thought. He lays a protective gloved hand on the gun’s sturdy barrel, its solid heft a notable contrast to the worn, rugged curve of Sniper’s bow. Both weapons are taped and battered, but Sniper’s has a certain raw, old-fashioned quality to it unmatched by the medical precision of the doctor’s equipment. His quiver lays nearby, filled to the brim with feather-tipped shafts; Medic casts a wary glance over them, checking to make sure no white feathers have been included.

Satisfied, he sits back, shrugs his shoulders to release the tension of the medipack’s burden, and gazes out at the sparse desert beyond.

The words hang in the air like a threat when he speaks. “Vhy have you invited me here?”

“Oi know how fond ya are a’ the outdoors.” Sniper’s accent is thick and rich, grating to some ears but musical to others. Medic is undecided on how to feel -- the words sound strange enough in plain English, let alone the Australian dialect, but he has long ago learned to decipher his teammates’ peculiar accents. “Thought ya might wanna come sit with me in the early mornin’, get ya out of yer office a lil’ bit. Too much a’ those chemicals can’t be healthy, y’know.”

Medic glances suspiciously at him, glasses shifting askew as he tilts his head. “Since vhen are _you_ a health advocate?”

“Just don’t want ya poisonin’ yerself.” Sniper removes his own yellow-toned sunglasses, blinking a little and rubbing his eyes. He hasn’t worn them long enough to leave tan lines, but the difference still shows on his face, from the lines on the bridge of his nose to his unkempt dark eyebrows. Folding them, he slides them into a vest pocket alongside a sheath of bullets, of no use to him in today’s fight. “An’ Oi thought ya could come watch the birds with me, doc. Unless only doves are to yer likin’.”

It’s a clumsy and transparent attempt at socializing, probably sparked by Pauling’s reminders or some other extrinsic motivator. Medic is in disbelief. Brushing his unruly tuft of dark hair up off his forehead, he glances from the arrows to the landscape ahead, and then back at Sniper. “Ve’re not going to be _shooting_ zhem, are ve?”

Sniper laughs, a harsh barking noise that has a hint of mirth to it. “Nah. Just watchin’. Oi only shoot my targets, mate. No fun in huntin’ for sport anymore.”

“Vell, zhat’s a relief.” Medic relaxes visibly, fastidiously fixing his glasses to even them out on his face. Loosening his tie a little, he sits back, booted legs hanging over the side of the camper, and glances at Sniper again, who’s still settled in his cross-legged pose like an enigmatic, unkempt yogi.

Before Medic can speak again, Sniper reaches into his backpack and offers binoculars, a damaged plastic pair infused with a musky smell probably derived from koalas. “Try ‘em.’

Medic wrinkles his nose at the item in his palm. “Vhat now?”

“Take a look, doc.” And Sniper narrows his eyes at a blur in the distance. He’s farsighted -- Medic has always known this. Reluctantly, the doctor raises the binoculars to his face, above his reading glasses, and peers out at the dirt and sand.

For a split second Medic catches a clear view of the blur. It’s a roadrunner, bolting across the desert in a feathery trail with its tail held high and its thin legs moving rapid-fire. Medic actually grins, leaning forward to get a better view through the dim lenses, but it zooms out of his field of view before he can react, leaving behind traces of kicked-up dust.

He lowers his hand, and politely gives back the binoculars. “Fascinating. I haven’t had time to look for one of zhose before.”

“Interestin’, huh?” Sniper turns and gives a toothy carnivorous grin, laughing like an overgrown dingo. “Looks like Scout, don’t it?”

Medic stifles a chuckle, leaning back, then remembers his self-imposed rules for decorum and sits up again properly, hands folded in his lap. “Is zhis how you alvays spend your mornings?”

“Nah.” Sniper untangles himself from his pose, shifting to a slightly more comfortable position with his legs stretched out before him. In the mornings, he opts to bring up a pot of coffee with him and refill at will, and he now dispenses a cup of the black bitter liquid into a scarred dingy mug, swilling it down in one gulp. “Ya want some coffee?”

Medic notes the lack of a direct answer to his question -- or perhaps is Sniper too direct? The man is hard to read sometimes. “Nein, danke. I had my coffee already today.”

“Yeah? How much did ya sleep? Not enough, Oi’m bettin’.”

The doctor snaps back, briefly. “Zhat’s not your concern.”

“Just let yerself enjoy life, doc. Get some rest, for starters. Oi can’t shoot straight if I ain’t awake.” Sniper pushes the brim of his hat back, regarding Medic through hazel eyes. His face is creased and worn from years spent under the Australian sun, but that doesn’t dim his natural rugged appeal, knife scar along his cheek faded to a thin line. “All Oi’m sayin’ is, it ain’t good for any of us ta get lost in the job. Oi know I’m not one ta talk, I ain’t got a life outside a’ this, but we gotta look out fer each other.”

“Vell. Zhank you for zhat.” Medic is a bit taken aback by this sudden display of compassion. He’s used to the Sniper that sits on high ledges and flings jars of urine and riddles the enemy with bullet holes during split-second pauses in the battle’s flow. This Sniper, who extends a friendly hand and shares his binoculars and voluntarily spends time with his teammate, is something else entirely. Almost a revelation.

Or maybe it’s Medic’s fault for closing himself off to these advances until now.

The metal roof is starting to heat up from the sun beating down on the camp, infusing the air with the kind of blistering heat that produces distant wavering mirages and soaks the team with damp sticky sweat. Medic prepares for this, and loosens his tie, letting silence hang between them until his German accent cuts through the air once more, sharp and grating. “So vhat’s our strategy for today?”

“Oi’m gonna sit an’ shoot things.” Sniper squints at him, mouth curving upward in a wicked smirk. “An’ yer gonna run around like a chicken with its head cut off, healin’ an’ skewerin’ with that saw.”

“Fair enough.” Medic isn’t quite sure what he was expecting as an answer, but that seems… a bit off. This must be the reason Sniper isn’t included in the designated strategy team. He blinks owlishly at Sniper for a few seconds, until Sniper finally elbows him in the ribs, the smirk widening into an authentic grin. “Don’t be so serious, mate. Oi’m gonna perch in the side entrance an’ shoot whoever tries first for the middle point. You better have an uber ready to push ‘em back.”

“I vill.” Rudimentary, but accurate. Medic returns the smile, looking inevitably sinister due to the cast of his features. That can’t be helped, but he is still making an attempt to reciprocate with Sniper’s clumsy endeavors to socialize. As strange as the experience may be, he’s enjoying himself. Most of his teammates prefer to keep a safe distance from the mad doctor. “Do you zhink ve have a chance today?”

“Sure.” Sniper licks his lips, scooting backward on the metal roof to change his sitting pose again. Ironically enough, it’s difficult for him to sit the same way for long periods of time. Whenever he tries, he receives a knife to the back for his efforts. “Half an’ half odds, Oi think that’s decent.”

Medic lets out a snorting little chuckle. He rubs his hands together gleefully, remembering something. His late night experiments have led to some alterations in the healing mechanism, for better or for worse. “I’m eager to try out a few improvements to zhe Medigun. Perhaps I could even give it an attempt vith you.”

 _“Me?_ Nah, doc. Oi’m not gonna be on the field, scurryin’ around an’ hopin’ not ta get stabbed. Keep me out a’ the line a’ fire.” He gives Medic a wink, hat pulled low on his brow again. “Don’t ya know I like my peace and quiet?”

“Mm.” Medic considers this. “Vith a few exceptions, I see.”

“That’s roight.” Again, a sly little smile from Sniper, a modified snarl that turns pleasant when matched by the warm light in his eyes. He turns, and looks at Medic in full rather than in glimpses from the corner of his eye, observing the doctor in profile as he quietly sits. “Just a few.”


End file.
